Survivalist - 13 - Pursuit Page 13

  Word from the German forces under Captain Hartman established their arrival at two hours, by six in the evening. Rourke and the others of his party —in shifts, for precaution — had each slept six hours, bathed, eaten, and generally refreshed themselves. Annie had found young women her own age from among the scientists who spoke English and were eager for the opportunity to practice. Natalia, because of her native fluency in Russian and her extensive technical education, became a hub of interest among many of the older members of the scientific corps, especially the men. Akiro Kurinami too had found great popularity,

  and was already at work aiding in deciphering the fine nuances of meaning in the works of the physicist Tokugawa. The arrival of the Germans under Captain Hartman was eagerly awaited in the hopes of initiating an exchange of technological data.

  Rourke had not considered the Eden Project as being the salvation of future civilization, but these people, and curiously the Germans, did. Both cultures had survived much, taken divergent paths, and at last found a system of freedom, albeit the Germans had not found peace. Colonel Mann under express orders from Dieter Bern was to aid in prosecution of the war against Karamatsov and the Soviet forces, in the hopes of ending war once and for all.

  Of the latter hope, John Rourke entertained little hope for success —but he would work toward ending war as any sane man would, regardless of the prospects.

  Paul Rubenstein had found himself swamped by the leaders of the state-supported Evangelical Lutheran Church—Judaism was unknown here. Perhaps most heartening here, Rourke found, was the eagerness to know, to understand, to acquire knowledge for the sake of knowledge. There was work done in aerodynamics, yet these people used no automobiles, no aircraft.

  Sarah had found a niche as well. Painting and artwork of any kind was almost reverentially treated here, and Sarah’s career as artist and illustrator had involved her with the University by the time they had breakfasted at noon, Sigrid Jokli eliciting their backgrounds in a manner that seemed to be driven more by curiosity and innocence than by reasons of prying or information gathering.

  Madison and Michael were the focus of attention of the historians — Madison for the history of the culture from which she had sprung, Michael for his remem

  brances of the aftermath of The Night of The War and his experiences since awakening from the cryogenic sleep; but the real focus of interest was Madison.

  Elaine Halversen’s scientific specialties had drawn great interest from the scientific community, but even more interest was generated by her chocolate brown skin. None of the people here had ever seen a black person and had happily greeted the news that more were with the Eden Project survivors.

  Rourke had spent several hours in conversation with Madame Jokli and others —recalling the events leading to The Night of The War, the events since —and he had excused himself to walk about the place alone. Bitter memories, dead friends. He often found himself thinking of the heroic General Varakov — a soldier, a patriot to his native Russia, but above all a human being capable of great insight and feeling, but, like all the rest, dead.

  When he had excused himself, Madame Jokli had told him to visit the house of Jon, the last name escaping him as unpronounceable. But aside from their similarity of first names they would find commonality of interest. In his late sixties, Jon had retired from his work in science and devoted his time to the crafting of edged weapons, always a hobby, a skill learned from his father who had been one of those who ventured forth into the cold to mine metal for ornate swords, for scientific equipment. Jon himself did not venture into the cold anymore, but rather his son, a biologist, did it for him.

  But Jon spoke English because of his scientific background.

  There was no telephone system —it had never been found necessary. Radios linked one community to another, volcano to volcano, but beyond that all communication was written or by word of mOuth. Jon

  would know that Rourke was coming. Rourke had agreed to go.

  The walk along the creatively but logically laid out garden pathways was pleasant and peaceful, the pretty girls in their long dresses nodding, smiling, some of them giggling, the older persons watching from porches or balconies, waving or sometimes only watching.

  People here lived in a mixture of private family inherited residences or larger apartment complexes.

  It was much like a twentieth-century city, but without the problems of cities of that era, and set amid a pollution-free, climate-controlled garden.

  He could never live like this —nothing changed, he had realized early.

  He followed the house numbers —some houses had no numbers or the numbers were obscured by vines or climbing plants. Everyone knew everyone and where everyone lived. He had noticed too that there were no locks. But those house numbers visible had led him to a two-story house, the same pyramidal roof structure, unnecessary here but a remnant from the architecture of the outside where roofs had to be built to withstand the weight of heavy snows and to shed the snows at the first melting.

  A low, narrow porch fronted the door and Rourke took the steps and knocked.

  The door opened after a moment. A tall man, his body beneath the gray long-sleeved shirt seeming muscular and vastly younger than the flowing mane of white hair and the white beard contrarily indicated. He wore loose-fitting darker gray slacks, wrinkled at the bottoms from being stuffed into boot tops as Rourke had noticed was the custom here. But he wore no boots, but rather slippers of soft-looking leather.

  Tm-“

  “I know Who you are —welcome!” The man extended his right hand. Rourke took it, the man clasping his left hand over Rourke’s right. “I am honored, sir —come in, please!”

  “You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Disturbing me —that is rich indeed! Come!” And he almost dragged Rourke through the doorway. The man’s grip was that of a man half his age, his eyes clear, alight with interest, blue like all the other eyes here. The house was modest, utilitarian, comfortable seeming, the walls white like the exterior of the house, the windows opening outward toward the garden walkway in front. The man clapped his hands together in glee, Rourke noticed as the man eyed his weapons, Rourke’s eyes scanning the paintings, the swords, the first firearms he had seen here —an engraved, ivory-gripped percussion revolver and a Kentucky-style flintlock rifle. “I am the only man here who has guns. They have been passed down for generations. No one uses them,” he laughed, “and no powder is available with which to fire them, but they are family heirlooms. Please — while I get some refreshments — please …” and he gestured toward the wall where the two guns and several of the swords and a painting in the style of Van Gogh, but not a Van Gogh, hung.

  “I’m putting you to too much trouble, sir…

  “Nonsense —we heard you would come —we hoped you would come. My wife has been baking pastries — please?”

  The man scratched his head, his face etched momentarily with puzzlement, and then lit with a smile. “The forest telegraph!”

  “Jungle telegraph,” Rourke smiled.

  “Yes —please,” and Jon left the “room, disappearing toward the rear of the house.

  Rourke approached the wall with the two guns. The

  percussion revolver was a Colt Third Model Dragoon, the type Wild Bill Hickok had favored over all others. It looked original, rather than one of the new-edition Colt blackpowder guns introduced in the 1970s, but Rourke could not be sure. The quality of the Colt new editions had been such that some skillful and unscrupulous persons had been able to disguise them to appear as originals, so well disguised that at times experienced collectors were hard tested to know the difference. Rourke did not count himself this knowledgeable. But it was beautiful.

  The flintlock rifle was —“You are a doctor —yes?”

  Rourke turned away from the rifle—Jon had reentered, a plump, chubby-faced, white-haired woman carrying a tray with him. Something smelled good. “Yes —a doctor of medicine. And I under
stand you are a biochemist.”

  “Yes —yes,” and he gestured dismissively with his hands.

  The woman set down the tray, smiled, curtseyed, and started to leave.

  “My wife —she speaks no English, cares nothing for weapons —but she is a fine woman. Anyway, the last thing she needs to do is eat — please — sit yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Rourke smiled, seating himself on a light-colored Scandinavian-type couch with square leather cushions.

  “Are those original?” and Rourke gestured to the wall.

  “Yes —the guns belonged to my ancestor who first settled here. It has required constant attention over the years to keep them in perfect condition as they are — the humidity here, you know.”

  “Excellent —I can see why you are so proud of them. And the swords?”

  Jon smiled as he sat down. “Please,” and gestured to

  the coffee, the pastries, which were round and covered in sugar. “I have contributed one sword to that wall, as did my father, and his father before him. And so on,” and he smiled. “It is a very good thing it is a large and sturdy wall.”

  The coffee was good to drink, the pastries richer than Rourke was at all used to or had ever favored, but good —plums and apple pieces inside each pastry. Rourke learned they were of Danish origin and were called Aebleskivers.

  They spoke of sword-making, knife-making, of the community inside Hekla, of the other communities that formed Iceland as it was today. “Weapons are for decoration only. Those men you fought when you entered here — and those men who were willing to fight you —they have never before raised a sword in battle. It is a ceremonial tradition. You see, once our society was formed, weapons were the last thing anyone wanted here. Warfare had brought about the destruction of the rest of the earth, we had thought, and the internecine warfare here in Iceland had nearly destroyed us. No laws were suggested prohibiting weapons, no need really, there was a general dislike for their use. But early on, it was determined that for order, law enforcement would be needed, and that some type of weapon might from time to time be required. Hence the swords —we have always been traditionally-minded here in Iceland, and mindful too of our Viking heritage. Hence, the sword seemed perfect. In the early days there was occasionally crime. Now there is not —we have removed all necessity, real or imagined, for criminal activity. We have made tremendous strides against mental illness. Combining both factors, crime is unknown. But the sword has become a symbol — oddly, for peace, here —and it alone has guarded us for five centuries. Not since the earliest days here has one

  been used to let blood.”

  Tm sorry if we’ve brought violence back to you.”

  “Life is many things —our lives here are restricted. Restricted in the sense that we have limited experiences of the world, because we have our own world only. The young men who enter law enforcement practice with their swords, never expecting to use them. Perhaps you will have caused them to take their practice more seriously,” Jon laughed. “Your guns —may I see them?”

  “Certainly,” he nodded. He carried only the twin stainless Detonics Combat Master .45s, the Python locked away in the helicopters, as were the other weapons. He withdrew one of the pistols with his right hand, snapping it from the Alessi rig. He pushed the magazine-release catch, then worked back the slide, his left palm over the ejection port to catch the chambered round. He visibly inspected the open chamber, let the slide run forward, and lowered the hammer, then handed the pistol to Jon. Had the man been a twentieth-century man with so avid an interest in weapons, Rourke might have handed over the pistol with the slide locked back. But he doubted Jon would understand the operation of the pistol.

  “And this is?”

  “A Detonics Combat Master, in .45 ACP.““ACP?”

  “It originally stood for Automatic Colt Pistol.”

  “Ahh —and the metal? It seems of excellent quality.”

  “A variety of stainless steels. Early stainless-steel semiautomatic handguns had problems with lubricating and were prone to galling. Detonics conquered the problem with their guns and others followed suit. It’s basically a Colt-Browning design, a single-action as you can see, in that respect like the Third Model Dragoon you have on the wall. But of course the gas expended during firing works to operate the slide, and

  each time the slide moves rearward a spent round is ejected and a fresh one chambered from the magazine as it goes forward.” Rourke held up the six-round magazine for the pistol, which he had removed to safe it. ” — Until the magazine runs out,” he added. He inserted the loose round under the feed lips. “I use 185-grain jacketed hollow points —at least until I run out.”

  “You live by this —this and the other one in your case?”

  “A holster —but no. I live with them as aids. I live by what I feel is right. These are tools, much like the tools you used in your laboratory when you were a scientist.”

  “Why does a healer use weapons?”

  Rourke took one of his cigars from his pocket — the older man was lighting a pipe. “May I?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Rourke lit the cigar in the blue-yellow flame of his battered Zippo. “But my question — why?”

  Rourke exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke, the smoke hanging in a cloud for an instant, then dissipating through the open windows leading to the path. “I, ahh —I was always interested in firearms, enjoyed shooting as a hobby, was good with guns. I always wanted to be a doctor. I guess I wanted to help people —if that sounds trite, I apologize.”

  “No —not at all,” and Jon fell silent.

  “I came to the realization that people seemed dead-set on destruction, on perpetrating all sorts of evil — that working as a doctor was patching up the evil, in essence, not really doing anything to counteract it —at least not as a physician, not for me. I joined my country’s intelligence service and worked within that sphere for a number of years, trying to stem the tide of communism and international terrorism. How much good I did, I don’t know. Then at last I hit on what I felt could be truly useful, beneficial: Teaching people

  how to stay alive. I’d always considered life supremely important, that each individual was unique, irreplaceable. I began teaching the knowledge and experience I had gained with weapons, survivalism, the practical applications of medicine for the individual. I wrote about the subjects extensively, conducted seminars, trained a wide range of personnel, both in the classroom context and in the field. But I learned early on that, perhaps because life is so precious, there’s always someone who wants to take it, destroy it. My firearms, my edged weapons —like the mind, I use them as a means of preserving life, my loved ones’ lives, the lives of people who can’t or won’t preserve their own. It was fashionably noble at times throughout history to be pacifistic, to vow never to lift a hand against one’s fellow man. But life shouldn’t be thrown away. I won’t throw away mine. I’ve risked it, would risk it again. Not to defend oneself if the means are even marginally available is suicide, and suicide is, under most circumstances, the total abdication of logic and reason. So, preserving life and the lives of others is of course the ultimate logical act, at least to me. My guns help me with this. Nothing more.”

  “You are a complex man —and I think you are a hero. We could have been heavily armed, Dr. Rourke, yet you entered here to save your daughter.”

  “Paul Rubenstein did the same thing. There’s nothing extraordinary about that.”

  “Perhaps — perhaps not. Why did you not kill those guards, or kill there in the park that faces the residence of Madame Jokli?”

  “There didn’t seem to be a reason for it.”

  “But surely your guns were superior to our swords.”

  “Had there been a reason to kill, rest assured I would have.”

  Jon nodded thoughtfully, handing Rourke back the

  little Detonics pistol. Rourke put the magazine up the butt, worked the slide, chambering a round, then slowly lowered the hammer ove
r the chambered round, rolling his thumb from between the hammer and the rear face of the slide for added safety.

  “I will show you my work —come.”

  Rourke nodded, stood as Jon stood, then followed the older man down the length of the sitting room and into a narrow hallway, to a door, then through the doorway. A workshop, attached to the house, primitive by twentieth-century standards. No machinery, but a workshop nonetheless. Windows — closed here —would have opened onto a foundry just outside the house. Along the near wall were wooden pegs, hung into the pegs leather thongs, and suspended from the thongs an array of edged weapons of all sizes and types —swords, fighting knives, hunting knives, skinners, daggers.

  “The temptation, of course, since we are a society essentially without violence, would be to use materials that lent themselves better to decoration and were not sturdy enough for actual use. But our guild has rejected this almost as one. Each sword, each knife, is as strong as such an implement can be made, our steels made to the most exacting formula.”

  “A question?” Rourke began, studying a sword that was not yet completed — the area where the guard and the handle would be was unfinished — merely the finished blade and the full-length tang. “When I followed my daughter here through the snow, I saw the impression of something like a staff in the snow.”

  Jon laughed. “Bjorn —you followed Bjorn. Bjorn Rolvaag is the one who found your daughter …”

  “I want to meet him and thank him.”

  “Yes,” the old man nodded. “Bjorn is, as you described yourself, someone interested in survivalism. He spends much time in the snows, enjoys the rugged

  life. I made his staff for him. He would not mind my showing you —I made two. One for myself.” And he walked across the room to a closet, opened the door. Beyond Jon were billets of steel, a wall lined with files. He closed the door, turning around —in his hands was a six-foot length of what looked like stainless steel. As Rourke drew nearer, he could see that hairline-thin joints were spaced every foot or so. The base of the staff was a triangular-shaped spike, the head of the staff a massive knob, also of stainless.steel. Jon walked over to one of the workbenches, set the staff down, and began to dismantle it. “It is made of one-and-one-half-inch steel tubing, but the tubing begins as solid bar stock and is machined into the tubular conformation. There are six separate foot-long segments, as you can see.” He unscrewed the staff at the center. “I have threaded each segment for the length of three inches. In a single segment, only six inches are unsupported. This will not break. Bjorn, when he helped me to design it, took his staff and used it to pry a boulder weighing more than five hundred pounds. The boulder moved, the staff did not even dent, nor did it bend. The staff is empty, but as you can see,” the possibilities for carrying one’s need in the staff are endless. A true implement for survival, as well as a formidable weapon, I should think.”